Making Up
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: A really old bit of Brendan and Ste fluff that I thought FF people might like.


_Hello again! I haven't been round these parts for months, but I logged on yesterday and found some really lovely messages/reviews that totally choked me up. Thank you to the people who left them. A few have asked me if I'm going to write more fic, and the answer's no, sorry, but I suddenly thought what I could do would be to upload some little silly things I had on tumblr that were written for fun, but some FF people might like them. So, these are REALLY old, but then everything's in one place, and I'll probably ditch my tumblr soon. Here's the first one. It's a bit daft because I was trying to hit various keywords, but it was me imagining them together. x_

**Making up**

_For all the dreamers._

"C'mon …" Ste took Brendan by the elbow and dragged him into the middle of the room. "C'm an' dance …"

Brendan looked at him, slightly exasperated. Ste had tinsel round his neck that he'd nicked from The Dog because they were taking down their decorations, and he was dancing on his own like a loon in the middle of the room, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, lost in the moment.

"No," Brendan said, rolling his eyes, "Stephen …" But he obviously hadn't sounded very convinced, because he'd let Ste drag him there anyway.

"Yeah," Ste said, pulling Brendan towards him, and sort of collapsing his weight against him. "Don't be a … don't be a …" he seemed to lose the plot, and just looked up at Brendan, his mouth slightly open. Brendan allowed his arms to slide around Ste's waist as Stephen looked up at him.

"Wha' Stephen?" he asked him, amused. "A stick in the mud?" He was sometimes very aware that there were ten years between them.

Stephen laughed. Then frowned. "Whassa stick in the mud? A stick … in the mud?" He laughed, again, as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

Brendan looked down into his face, which was relaxed and unfocussed, but beautiful. He stroked a finger down one of his cheeks. Bent to whisper into one of his ears. "I think you might be a little bit drunk, Stephen."

Ste laughed, again. If he had to be more precise, Brendan would have described it as a giggle. "You can talk," he slurred, slightly. And dropped his head comfortably onto Brendan's shoulder, resting a cheek on his shirt. He had a point. Brendan rarely got drunk, unless he was in a really foul mood, but even he had knocked back enough whiskeys tonight to be feeling warm, and fluid. They were making up. Making up was always good. And they had a day off tomorrow, he'd arranged it. Nothing to get up for. He allowed Ste's body to mould itself against his own, and they swayed slightly, to the music. It was a different kind of intoxicating.

It had started with a row. Just something stupid, that had flared up between them at work. He'd asked one of the other guys to do the rotas, and Stephen had been pissy, because that was his job. Well, that's how it had started, but then it had seemed to escalate into Brendan not treating Stephen like a partner, how he wasn't his slave, they were equals now, and if he wasn't prepared to show everyone that, then Stephen was off, he could find another job anywhere, any time. There had been folded arms and a pout-scowl combination that could strip paint. And doors slammed. Like all their rows, it was hot, and fierce, and soon over. And the worst of it was, as Brendan had raged and thrown biros at the walls and kicked the bin across the room, he had known that Stephen was probably right. It was still new to him, all this. He had been comfortable, in his own strange way, with Stephen as his employee. It had turned him on, back in the old days, to call Ste into the office, shut the door, and press him up against the wall, and know that he was in charge. Having Stephen as his partner, in all senses, was the last thing he'd expected in the world. They'd edged closer, for weeks and weeks, or it felt like it. Wary. Talking. Opening up. Sometimes raw, honest. Being polite, considerate with each other. It was bloody unnatural. But it was necessary. "Friends," Stephen called it. Torture, was more the word in Brendan's mind, but he rolled with the punches, taking each day as it came. And then they'd stayed behind together after work one day. Ste had poured them both drinks. For old time's sake, he said. But considering they both had families to get back to, neither of them had seemed to want to leave. Hands had brushed, as they seemed to have a few times at work recently. And the conversation had become awkward, as they struggled to say what they wanted in the right words. Never really been words first, Brendan. Actions came first, words later. Ste had looked like he was falling off his bar stool with awkwardness.

"D'you think … we could ever …"

"What? … like …?"

"If it was … different …"

"Like?"

"I dunno … equals."

"You mean now we're …"

"Yeah, because now we're both …"

"Yeah … yeah. Maybe. I don't know."

But then Stephen had stood up, as if he'd got cold feet. "I should go," he said. But Brendan had reached out his hand and grabbed Stephen's where it rested on the top of the bar. Or his hand had reached out of its own accord, and taken hold of Stephen's. Because it was one of those moments, when you take it, or regret it. It wasn't rough, he just held it in his own. They both looked at it, in something like amazement. Breathing was suspended. Then they looked at each other.

Brendan had cleared his throat, feeling something momentous was called for.

"I'm up for it, if you are," he'd said, gruff. Damn, was that really the best he could do? Smooth.

But for once, Stephen had said nothing. Brendan had just felt his fingers separate, and thread themselves through his. And he had let Brendan stand up, and come very close to him. Stephen looked at him out of very blue eyes, still partly fearful. There was a sense that they both might be shaking a bit. Can you smell someone else's longing, and hope? Brendan had felt like he could. They had both leant in, very slowly, tentatively, their bodies making contact. Brendan had found himself burying his nose and mouth into the side of Stephen's hair, shorter, smarter than it used to be, and nuzzling. He cradled Ste's head with his free hand, burying his fingers in the longer hair on the crown. A noise escaped him that was half moan, half sigh. He'd wanted to do that for a long time. He wore it almost shaven at the sides now, Stephen. It had been warm and soft, like suede. He had felt an unmistakeable sense of want, and imminent satisfaction, welling up. Until he had touched him, he'd barely let himself realise how desperate he had been to do it.

"I love you." He'd murmured it, into the side of Stephen's hair. And then realised, with surprise, that Stephen had said it too, into the air over his shoulder. They'd pulled back far enough to check that it really had happened. And then their mouths had met, just very tentative at first, and then more sure, but slow, very very slow, opening, and feeling, and Brendan slid his tongue into Stephen's mouth, and felt another tongue, soft and familiar and wanton, meeting his own. And then felt their hands, reaching for each other. Their bodies.

They hadn't left the club until the small hours, walking back through the village in the freezing pitch dark at 4am, Stephen's arms clutched around Brendan's waist, and Brendan's arm around his shoulder, and had gone to Brendan's bedroom and fallen into bed, and still not slept until six. And had taken it from there.

But it was still new, all of this. A buzz, mostly, learning to have Stephen in his life, but strange, awkward, difficult. And no matter how hard they tried, things went wrong, like they had today. And they had to be dealt with. Brendan had resolved to make it up to him. This was what people in relationships did, right? So he'd decided to cook. Spag bol. What could go wrong? He'd bought ingredients, diligently, from Price Slice, and taken them home to prepare. And texted Stephen to say come round so he could make it up. Except somehow, the moment Ste had walked in, was the exact moment Brendan had been burning the mince.

"What are you doing?" Ste had said, walking over as Brendan had thrown the pan and its contents into the sink and reached to open the window.

"Nothing," he'd snapped. "Just … nothing … burning … stuff." He had chucked the knife he'd been using to chop the onions into the sink with the pan. "Shit," he swore, in frustration.

And yet Stephen's hand had still been placed in the small of his back, his chin resting on Brendan's shoulder.

"You did that for me?" he asked him.

"No," Brendan had said, on instinct. "Yes … maybe."

Ste had continued to nuzzle his shoulder. It was strangely soothing. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," Brendan had said, feeling like an idiot.

"I don't have to eat it though, do I?"

"No," Brendan had said. And had duly taken him out to the Dog for a burger, where they had proceeded to sit together and he'd watched with amusement, eating peanuts and stealing Ste's chips, as Stephen got steadily drunk, and his own head started to swim just a bit, until Jack chucked them out, and he had steered Stephen home by the shoulders. Which was why they were stood here now, swaying, with the charred remains of Brendan's best Bolognese still in the sink, ignored.

Brendan looked down into Stephen's face. He wondered if, strictly speaking, he deserved to be loved as much as Stephen's expression told him he was. But then, he did love him back. More than he could really describe, or understand. He adored him, in all his ordinariness, and specialness. He found himself tracing the arch of one of Stephen's eyebrows with a thumb. He wondered if Stephen could tell the same way, from the way Brendan looked at him. He hoped so. He didn't want to be always having to say it. There was a lot to be said for understanding what made someone tick.

But Stephen could still surprise him, even when he was mildly pissed. Maybe especially then.

"You've changed," he said, thoughtful, but direct.

"Is that right?" Brendan asked him. He knew he had, a part of him, the darkest part. He hoped it was for the better. That was the general idea. He knew he still had failings enough, if that's what it was to swagger through life, always looking for the main chance, with only his own very particular code to guide him. And his love for the people in his life.

"Yeah," Ste said, one hand reaching up to stroke Brendan's face, and the beard he wore there now. "You're all f … fuzzy."

Right. Not some existential comment on his psychology, then. Brendan grinned. He nodded his head towards Stephen's hair.

"You can talk."

Stephen ran a hand over it, self-conscious but flattered. "Wasn't sure you'd like it."

"Why wouldn't I like it?" Brendan asked him.

Ste hesitated. He wrinkled his nose again. "Well I didn't care that much at the time what you thought." Because he hadn't. Having his hair cut had been part of declaring his independence. He'd just wanted to grow up, and to be treated like that. Funny how hard it had been to get anyone but Amy to realise he wasn't a child. Less funny how hard it had been for him to finally realise that he had to stand firm on what he knew was right, and wrong. And take some responsibility for what he allowed to happen, and what he didn't. A haircut was the easy part.

Mentions of their past were still difficult. Their eyes met, wary suddenly, cautious. And then Brendan felt Stephen's arms slide tightly round his neck, and pull him into a hug, warm and affectionate. It always amazed him, when Ste held him like that. So fearless, really. He'd rarely been hugged by anyone. Cheryl, occasionally. Amy, once, memorably, way back, making him jumpy as a box of frogs. Mitzeee. It was a woman thing, hugging. He didn't really do touchy. But this … this was like a lifeline. Knowing someone put their faith in you like that. Even if he was a bit drunk.

"Don't go there tonight," he heard Ste say, over his shoulder.

Brendan tightened his own hold for a second, then relaxed it. Changed the subject. "What do you wanna do then, Stephen?" He was hoping he might start steering him towards the bedroom.

Ste pulled back and looked at him. "We could … we could watch TV." Brendan sighed, slightly martyred. He knew Ste liked to sit and watch TV with him. And he was growing to find it acceptable. He'd take Stephen's feet into his lap, and just watch him, amused, while he watched the screen. But Brendan still got bored easily. He needed to be making things happen. And he knew what happened when Ste put the TV on late at night. He just fell asleep and then Brendan had to poke him, or throw things at his head, to wake him up to go to bed. It wasn't the most exciting end to an evening.

"I don't want to watch TV, Stephen." He hoped that maybe the arm that was still around Stephen's waist would suggest exactly what he did want. But he still wanted Ste to get there himself. Somehow, it was more fun that way.

"I know," Ste said, his face lighting up, "I could seduce you."

Bingo. Definitely getting warmer, anyway.

"Oh, yeah?" Brendan said to him, his brows quizzical. "How are you gonna do that?"

A doubtful expression crossed Stephen's still slightly drunk face. Then it lit up again. "I could talk French. French is proper sexy, right?"

Brendan was now desperately trying to hide how badly he wanted to laugh. "Do you know any French?"

Stephen frowned. Looked unsure. "Um … voolay voo …" He tailed off.

"Go on." Brendan was stroking Ste's face now, with one thumb. He couldn't resist. Suddenly, it seemed like something came into Ste's head.

"I know … vooley voo cooshay aveck mwa … suh swar."

He looked triumphant.

Brendan laughed, under his breath.

"Do you even know what that means, Stephen?"

He looked puzzled, and a bit disappointed. "No, I heard it on a song. I thought it might be a bit sexy, and sophisticated."

Brendan ran a thumb over Stephen's plump bottom lip, now. "It is," he said, "very."

"And is it working?" Stephen asked him, obviously and finally turned on by the attention.

"It might be," Brendan said to him. "The answer's yes, anyway."

And he bent down, scooped Stephen up, tinsel and all, and carried him off before he had another chance to open his mouth.

Brendan woke up feeling slightly muzzy in the head, after the night before. Squinting against the light coming through the blinds, he looked across at Stephen, lying slumped on his front on the bed, his arm clutching the pillow, his face half-buried, his lips parted. Still totally gone. The covers had slipped off the top of his body, leaving it exposed, and Brendan found himself admiring it, the hair that covered the forearm curled around the pillow, so much stronger than he used to be. What happened to those chicken arms? They were strong enough now to grab hold of Brendan and shove him up against a wall so hard it almost winded him, though usually he was playing along. Heat spread through his veins at the sight of him. Brendan happened to know that Stephen was completely naked under those covers. Well, almost. He was still wearing his socks. The sex they'd had last night had been of the urgent, slightly drunken variety, and they'd lacked the time or coordination to get them off. But there was something to be said, Brendan thought, for having Ste's legs over his shoulders with just those socks waving in the air. Anyway, his feet got cold in the winter.

He didn't want to disturb his sleep now – he'd kept him awake long enough last night. Brendan got up, carefully, went quietly to the bedroom door, checked that the coast was clear, and then walked completely naked to the bathroom. He took a shower, to clear his head, then dried himself off, roughly, and tied the towel loosely around his hips. He turned to the sink, wiped the steam from the mirror with one hand, and looked at himself. He looked exactly like what he was. A man recently back from the wilderness. He ran a hand over his beard. He wondered why he'd kept it. Maybe because he was afraid of going back to being the person he'd been before. It softened the edges that he knew were still there. But he didn't feel afraid, today. He felt like he wanted to look the world in the eye. He was who he was. He didn't need a mask.

The bathroom door swung open and Stephen stood in the doorway. His face was groggy, his hair mussed. Brendan looked him up and down, but mostly down. He was wearing Brendan's white shirt, from the previous day. He'd made a sort of attempt to do up a few buttons, but mismatched them. Apart from that, nothing except the socks. The shirt was too big for him, and hung low, but it covered nothing.

"Morning," Brendan said to him, forcing his eyes back up to Stephen's face.

Stephen grunted.

"You OK?"

"Yeah." Ste ran a hand through his hair, yawned.

Brendan fixed him with a look.

"Is that my shirt?"

"Yeah. First thing I could find."

"You do realise Cheryl's back this morning?" Brendan asked him, cocking an eyebrow.

Stephen screwed up his face. "Yeah. That's why I put it on, innit? Make myself decent."

Brendan laughed, under his breath. There were many ways of describing Stephen, standing there in an outsize wrongly-buttoned shirt and a pair of socks, his cock and balls swinging freely, but decent wasn't one of them. He turned back to look at himself in the mirror, and Stephen walked over to him, close. He could smell the morning warmth coming off the young man's body.

"What are you doing?" Stephen asked him.

Brendan looked at their reflections in the mirror, together. He laid out his razor and foam.

"Shaving," he said.

"Why?" Stephen seemed interested.

Brendan shrugged. It was difficult to explain. He half smiled at him. "I liked the muzzy. Looked good, didn't ye think?"

Stephen smiled back at him. "Yeah. It's you, isn't it?" They exchanged a look in the mirror. "Yeah," Brendan agreed.

Ste stepped right up to him now. "Come here, though." He put his hands on the beard, and pulled Brendan into a kiss, slow and soft, as if he was savouring the prickliness of it on his mouth. When they pulled apart, he buried his mouth in the hair on one of Brendan's cheeks. "Bye bye Brendan's beard," he said.

"Yeah, yeah," Brendan said, shaking him off brusquely and waving him away with one hand to hide his amusement, "get in the shower."

Stephen laughed. Brendan turned back to the sink and started to lather up the foam, but he was watching carefully in the mirror as Stephen turned on the jet, and then unbuttoned the shirt, letting it drop to the ground, leaving him in only his socks. He had these extraordinary hairy legs, the soft brown hair fading away into a light fuzz at the top of his thighs, where they met his buttocks. They did things to him, actually, those legs. Brendan tilted his head, appreciately, and took time to admire the firm curve of Stephen's arse as he bent to peel off the socks. And then Ste stepped in under the shower behind the screen. It was almost a relief to be free of the distraction so Brendan could apply himself to the task in hand.

While he shaved the beard, carefully, exposing parts of his face, watching some of his old self start to re-emerge, he listened to Stephen splashing about in the shower, singing along to himself.

_Don't hide yourself in regret_

_Just love yourself and you're set_

_I'm on the right track baby_

_I was born this way …_

Brendan's mouth twitched. You might have been born that way, he thought to himself. But it took me to make you feel it. And to make you come. His body rippled with memories of last night, his cock stirring under the towel.

He was nearly done when Stephen emerged from the shower, shaking his hair, rubbing himself dry, and then wrapping the towel low around his hips, so Brendan could still see that tattoo on his pelvic bone that he so much liked to sink his teeth into. Stephen wandered over, and looked at their reflections.

"Let's see then."

Brendan took a hand towel and wiped the last of the foam from his face. A familiar expression looked back at him.

"Wow," Stephen said. "Brendan Brady's back, then. Bitchin'."

"You reckon?" Brendan asked him. For some reason, something to do with their long history, he felt a slight anxiety about it, which underlay the fact that he knew he looked damn good.

But Stephen just bit his lip, thoughtful. "Yeah. I like it," he said, back to their reflections. "I always did."

As Brendan turned to look at him, Stephen reached up a hand and stroked the moustache, with a finger, gently, the tip of his tongue emerging between the side of his lips as he did. Brendan felt an irresistible attraction to him, that was impossible to suppress, and wiped all other anxieties away. And it seemed as if Stephen was feeling it too, because their bodies turned in to each other with a natural pull. Brendan took hold of Stephen's hips through the insecure towel. He bent his head to Stephen's neck and inhaled. He loved the smell of him. He felt Ste's hand on his chest.

"I've always liked this, as well," Stephen said, running his fingers through the hair.

Brendan pulled back and laughed a bit. "Yeah? You don't do so bad yourself these days." He let the fingers of one hand stroke through the light patch of hair that had sprouted on Ste's chest.

Ste laughed. He looked like he was blushing. Brendan enjoyed it. He let his hand drop lower, to the hair below Stephen's belly button, that led down into his groin. "This ain't bad, either," he said, stroking it with the back of one index finger. He could feel Stephen melting under his touch. Their eyes met, and exchanged a long glance.

"So what do you want to do on your day off, Stephen?" he asked him, his voice low and dark.

But it seemed like Stephen wasn't making easy game of himself. He played along, wrinkling his nose.

"Dunno," he said, innocently. "We could take the kids out?"

"Hmm," Brendan said, "that's … adorable Stephen. But some other time, yeah?" He kept up the stroking of Stephen's belly. He could tell it was working. He just needed to give it time. But the boy was made of steel these days, it seemed like.

"We could go out with Amy!" he said.

"What …" Brendan paused, "not with …"

"Yeah, with him. We could all go shopping, up the Trafford Centre. Leave the kids with Mike. You're always saying I need some decent clothes."

Brendan felt a need to take the situation in hand. There was absolutely no way he was spending his day off on a double shopping date with his lover's ex and her latest.

"Tell you what," he said, his hand sliding round to Stephen's backside, and pulling him in even closer. "I'll take you for a ride, if you like."

Stephen's face lit up. "Yeah, all right. Hey, you and me should do a road trip, some time. It'd be amazing. We could drive through Ireland, you could show me everything."

Brendan was now split directly fifty fifty between being amused, and wanting to get Stephen to shut up.

"Not today, though, eh?" he said, into Stephen's neck, making sure he felt the hot breath, knowing it was making him smile. "I'll take you up to West Kirby. Buy you an ice cream." He put his tongue out and just touched the side of Ste's neck, quick, rough.

He could tell Stephen was giving up the resistance. "What flavour?" he asked. Brendan could hear the smile in Ste's voice. "Mint choc chip?"

Brendan pulled back, and put his mouth very close to Ste's, which was now open with anticipation. "Any flavour you like, Stephen, as long as it's sweet, and wet." He leant in for the kiss which had been building for at least the last half hour. Their lips were literally a millimetre apart. But still Stephen didn't shut up.

"Great," he said, suddenly. "Are we going now, then?"

But his eyes were full of a thinly-veiled lust that gave him away, his pupils dilated. He was a fucking tease, this boy.

Brendan paused. "Give it a couple of hours," he said, and went in for the kiss, and felt Stephen's lips open, his arms reaching round Brendan's hips to loosen the towel, and he felt it slide over his backside, as they sank onto the floor.


End file.
